She's my Watson now
by Eryninn
Summary: Because of the actions of the First, much of what had been known was lost. And what had once been the demon standard has changed. Thus, Willow finds herself in a new situation. I utterly and completely ignore the comic continuation. This is a rough draft, even though it's entirely finished. I'm posting it up in the hopes of getting an English beta reader to polish it up.


Disclaimer: I own neither the Buffy characters (Joss Whedon and co), Sherlock Holmes (Doyle's family and various others), nor anything that is recognizable to the general public.  
Rated: K+ for safety  
Genre: Friendship and discovery.  
Author's Note: I utterly ignore the comic continuation of both Buffy & Angel.  
Author's Note: I love Jeremy Brett as Sherlock – even more so once I actually read the books. So, I got into series one of BBC's Sherlock, haven't had an opportunity to see series two but know a few things about it, I do rather like Elementary, and, of course, enjoy Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Thus, this story was born. I think of all the characters on Buffy, Sherlock would be most fascinated by Willow, Faith, Anya, and the vampires. I'm not sure how he'd feel about Oz because (though I love the werewolf boy with all my soul), he's too Zen for Sherlock's intensity and curious mind. I think Buffy doesn't have enough for his attention to fixate on while Faith's unusual circumstances – her past, the murder of her watcher that she witnessed, her time in jail – would hold him. The same thing with Anya and Willow, their hidden depths would capture his attention.

Well, I decided to let this stand as is. I've done some editing and tightening up on my own. So, at least until I hear from the wonderful person who offered to be my Beta, this is finished.

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"Thanks for the tetanus shot, Mike. But why are we going to the pathology lab? I haven't been exposed to anything medically weird, have I?" she asked, leaning heavily on her cane. Her knee was killing her and she really wanted to ice it. Unfortunately, such a hope was impossible because she had to be on the other side of London in order to teach her class.

"Sgt. Wilkis found something and thought you'd like to see it, Willow," he said. Pushing open the door, he gestured for her to enter first. They did not notice the occupant already there though the man looked up at them irritably.

Hopping up onto a stool, she let out a sigh of relief then looked at him in confusion. "I don't believe I know a Wilkis."

"She's new," Mike's voice was muffled as he leaned over, searching a drawer. "The Inspector told her about you. Ah-hah, here it is."

Willow frowned. "He's not supposed to do that,'" she said even as she accepted the evidence bag. "My presence is to be known only to you, him, and a special handpicked crew, one that I've already met and become comfortable with."

The man was more interested in the pair now. This…this was almost as curious as the case of recent apparent suicides.

"This couldn't just go missing from the murder scene," Mike told her. "Is it important?"

Letting out another sigh, she titled the bag and studied it more intently. "It could be but I won't know for sure until I can study it better." She put it in her jacket pocket. "And you know better than to ask me to study it here. I'll be in touch."

It was then that a baritone voice asked, "Mike, can I use your phone?"

"What's wrong with yours?" Mike sounded almost irritable.

"No signal," there was definite impatience now.

"Mine's in my office," he apologized.

Willow hesitated momentarily before shrugging. "Use mine," she passed it over, being careful to not brush his skin. She'd learned after her most recent spike of power that she needed to be careful to not reach out to others. Otherwise, she ended up either reading them or transferring power. And there was something about this guy…the enormity of his presence tugged at her memory. The sharpness of his face, the intelligent eyes seemed familiar.

Plus, her magic had been acting rather wonky lately. Giles was worried that she might be getting another growth spurt and she knew that would not be a good thing, not while she was on her own.

Not even bothering to thank her, he scrutinized her even as he dashed off his message. Upon closer reflection, she didn't seem as interesting as her words had lead him to believe that she was until he realized that he couldn't even get a glimpse of the evidence bag. Those pockets weren't deep enough to completely cover it. Obviously, there was something protecting it.

Interesting.

Passing her back the phone, he asked, "Afghanistan or Iraq?'

"I'm sorry?"

"You've recently returned from combat of some kind, though you are definitely not military or in the medical core. You're tanned more than time in the southern Californian sun would allow. Even though you are a native, you are not naturally this tan. Thus, you must have been in the Middle East – Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Cancun," she quipped, getting off the stool and taking a step back. His eyes never left hers and she felt like a microbe under the microscope. It was distinctly unnerving and she was relieved to feel her phone vibrate, reminding her of her schedule. "And I have somewhere else to be, so we're not having this conversation."

"Later is fine by me," he agreed, following her. Reaching out and turning her around, keeping to her side so that they would be walking in tandem.

"Personal space," she squawked, stumbling back though his presence at her side kept her on her feet. _Who is this guy_? It wasn't that he was dangerous, per se, but he was way too aware of her and everything around them for comfort. She had the feeling that he was the kind of person to see what others could not – or would not through sheer, willful blindness.

"Is a nice concept for others," he agreed.

"Sherlock, don't you have to finish this?" Mike called out, seeing her desperate look, crying for intervention.

"It has to settle for twenty-four hours," he replied, nodding to Molly. Accepting the coffee, he kept one hand on Willow. Her attempts to depart were about as subtle as they were effective. It was almost charming, her efforts were clearly not disguised and she made no attempt to distract him – not that it would do her any good. She wanted away form him and didn't care that he was aware of it, but she was far too polite to tell him where to get off.

Fascinating.

They left, his long fingers keeping tight hold of her wrist. Once outside, he hailed a cab and pulled her in after him. She fell onto the seat with an inelegant oof' sound and glared at him, cane falling to the floor. Giving the driver a random address, he watched her intently. She shifted uneasily, her fingers twisting around as she bit her lip.

A bright head of red, semi-natural color for her skin told of a darker shade. Hazel eyes, pupils wide but not with attraction – she was clearly nervous and afraid. Average body type, neither too thin nor overweight. Knee injured but not too badly which explained the use of a cane and not crutches, she'd probably try to hit him with her cane if she thought she'd get away.

This meant a long-haul recovery period.

Her eyes darted to the driver and she leaned forward, lips parted.

"So, you were saying?"

"About?" she asked, thrown by his question. Even though he'd been studying her, she'd thought he'd forgotten her. That she'd been kidnapped for no apparent reason except that he'd kept his hand on her wrist.

"Earlier, about where you were," he sharply elaborated. If not for the itching of his skin which told him to continue to pursue this matter, he'd have stopped the cab, kicking her out. He had little patience for stupidity and none for repeating himself. Honestly, was it too much to hope that people could keep up with him? The entire world could not possibly be populated with imbeciles, could it?

"Just because it was not the one you wished to hear does not mean I didn't give you a decent answer," she protested. "One would think that you would've been able to understand that I didn't wish to answer your question and left it at that."

"Which might imply that you are guilty of something," he smugly informed her. "An innocent person has no reason to hide."

"Unless they wish their business to remain private from random strangers," she huffed. "You do understand the concept of privacy, don't you?"

"That's boring," he replied.

"That's human," she snapped. "May I have my wrist back?"

He gave every appearance of thinking it over. The way his head tilted, the dark hair falling to the side and shadowed his gray eyes, gave weight to the appearance. "No," a smirk twisted his lips at the way she gapped at him. His phone went off and he pulled it out, face expressionless as he read the message. Fingers tying faster than she'd ever thought a person who was not possessed could, he sent his reply and leaned forward. "New Scotland Yard."

It was only then that she remembered that they'd been driving about randomly. Cursing herself, she resolved to learn London better. "I'm not a criminal," she squeaked, appalled by the sound but unable to keep it from happening. He'd read something into it and she dreaded what he'd come up with. "And I have somewhere else to be."

"Cancel it," he shrugged carelessly.

"Cancel?" she repeated the word in a tone that said she couldn't comprehend his meaning. "I can't cancel this class. We're at a delicate phase – and I'm the only teacher."

Taking a picture of her, he came to a decision. "221 Baker Street, five pm tomorrow. Meet me there or I will track you down. I have memorized the majority of London and am fully capable of finding you wherever you may hide. If I am reduced to the level of an errand boy, I will be most put out. Not to mention, far more curious about you that I believe I should be. Are we clear?"

A sharp breath escaped her but she knew when to yield. "221, 5, tomorrow or be the fox to your hound – got it."

"Good." They slowed down and he got out, still dragging her with him. Paying the driver, they went inside, him firmly ignoring her protests.

"I agreed to meet you tomorrow!"

"You did," he interrupted. "But I feel the need to make sure you get to your location safely."

"No, you don't."

"You're right – I don't. I thought it would be _human_," he sneered at the word, "To make up for delaying you."

"Uh, thanks." She stared at him, startled by the almost sincerity hiding underneath his disdain.

"Lestrade, this better be worth my time," he said as they walked up to a man and an irritated woman, "Donavan."

"Hi, Greg," Willow waved, a sheepish smile on her face at his pained 'what did you get yourself involved in now'? look.

"Aren't you supposed to be at King's College?" he asked, refraining from asking what he really wanted to know.

"In thirty minutes," she agreed. Holding up her left arm, "But I've been hijacked."

"Sherlock, let the girl go," he ordered sharply.

"The more I learn about you, the more interesting you become," he informed her, eyes gleaming with intent.

"No matter what you think you're seeing and hearing, I'm really not that interesting," she denied.

"Oh, but I think you are because I am not like others. I don't see things, I _**observe**_ them," he replied. "I think you should get to the point, Lestrade."

"Don't you think you should let go, freak?"

Before he retorted, the cane shot out and smacked Donavan on the shoulder hard enough to make her wince but not bruise. "Okay, I may not be a fan of this guy – his manners leave something to be desired – but I don't like bullies. Watch your tongue," she snapped, eyes cold. Something in them caused Donavan to step back, an almost fearful look on her face.

He released her, for perhaps the first time in his life shocked. It was a most unpleasant sensation, one he would avoid in the future. "You didn't have to do that." The words came from him involuntarily for he didn't like to express any kind of shock in front of others. But this was so out of his experience, he could not hold them in.

"I don't like bullies," she repeated, a world of pained experience in her voice. "Name's Willow Rosenberg – and I really do have to go."

"Sherlock Holmes," then he reminded her, "Tomorrow, Rosenberg."

"At five, 221 Baker Street," she replied, disappearing down the hall.

"What's the story on the girl?"

"I didn't call you for that," Lestrade snapped, walking to his office. "Bailey, give Willow a ride to King's College, West Campus – don't stop for lights."

Bailey nodded eagerly and left, an almost manic look in his eyes.

"The gardener did it," Sherlock said. "Now, who is this Ms. Rosenberg?"

When Lestrade remained silent, Sherlock heaved an irritated sigh. "She's American, has some medical training but not formal. Or not yet finished – she is too comfortable in a hospital to be a frequent patient. She's not jaded or weary of the place. There's something furtive about her but she's not hiding a crime – you're far too friendly and comfortable with her for that – but there's a darkness about her. The darkness of an addict but not to any drug that I've come across.

"So, who is she, Lestrade?"

Shutting the door, Lestrade leaned against his desk and stared at him. There was a voice in the back of his mind screaming at him that this was a bad idea. That he really needed to find a way to keep Sherlock from perusing his interest in Willow. Unfortunately, the voice was also resigned, knowing that it was pointless to try to talk the other man out of his fixations. Sherlock's need would have to be fulfilled before he moved on to other interests. "She's not your concern."

"I can always look her up."

It wasn't an idle threat. Lestrade knew the younger man would do it. Then again…"You'd do it no matter what I tell you, so I'm not saying a word. I need you to focus on the case. We can't go after the gardener without probable evidence."

Narrowing his eyes, he kept them locked on Lestrade's in a battle of wills. Rapidly, he listed off everything he knew about the guilt of the man. The evidence they would find and where they should look. "Now, you give me something about the girl."

"She babbles," he deadpanned and walked out, heading to where Donavan stood.

"Babbles," Sherlock repeated. "I already figured that out, Lestrade!"

Meanwhile Willow was on her way to the classroom she'd been assigned. Already she could see that it was half-filled and had to stifle a groan. This was not good – she rather preferred to be the first in the room. It gave her a feeling of having _some_ degree of authority. It was true, she mused, everything sounded more intelligent when spoken with an English accent.

Entering, she moved towards the desk at the front, aware of the eyes focused on her. With a great deal of will power, she refrained from sighing. She'd done too much of that already. Watching her. They were always watching her, examining everything she said and did. She just wished they'd pay that much attention to the actual coursework before them. "Afternoon," she greeted. "Have we lost more students?"

Students, such an innocuous and incorrect word for what they were.

These were the descendents of the Watcher's Council, brought to this place by a kind of hidden genetic impulse in their blood that responded to the call sent out one the threat of the First had been dealt with. Each one somehow knowing that they had a duty to follow and came to learn. They knew who she was, what she represented – and feared her for it as the Wicca Circle had, as the original Council had.

Yet, they had no choice – they needed her to teach them for the one who'd pulled the strings in the government to get her this room and an almost unprecedented look the other way had made sure that she was the only one for them to turn to.

It was days like this when she hated Mycroft 'holier than thou' Holmes.

The next day found her making her way slowly towards Baker Street, half hoping that she'd be hit by a car or mugged – anything to delay this meeting. A taxi – no, she corrected herself irritably – a cab pulled up alongside her. She chanced a glance and saw a harmless looking man, giving her a concerned look. It was so unexpected, she slowed down until she came to a stop.

"You look a bit lost, miss." It was said in a pleasant tone of voice, one she couldn't really find anything objectionable in it.

A shiver went down her spine anyway as she stared at him, tilting her head. The man really didn't seem threatening but she knew from painful experience that appearances were all too often deceptive. "A bit," she hesitated, "Just on my way to Baker Street to meet a friend." She didn't know why she referred to Sherlock as a friend. The man wasn't even really an acquaintance of hers, just someone who found something in her that interested him.

"I could give you a ride," he offered.

"That's very kind of you but I can't afford a taxi." She flushed. "Sorry, a cab ride at this time."

"Understandable," he waved off her apology and she felt terrible for being so suspicious of him. "American and far from home, it's natural to seek the familiar words for comfort and it would be no problem. Perhaps we could work something out."

Apprehensively, she took a step back, looking for anyone to help, all of her suspicions returning.

"Nothing like that," he quickly soothed her. Or attempted to, "I just meant that you could pay some of the fee and your friend the rest."

"That won't be necessary," a smooth voice informed him. Putting his arm around her shoulders, Sherlock guided her along. "I was wondering if you'd actually show up," he said as he handed a youth something.

A breathy gasp of relief and discomfort escaped her. "Well, I almost didn't – but you were pretty clear about what would happen if I tried to evade you. So, I came and met the creepy HOM."

"I thought you called them taxi drivers."

She burst into hysterical laughter, even though relief won over her discomfort. Between giggles, an explanation tried to make itself heard before she had to give up. Calming down at last, she looked up at the building before them. An eyebrow quirked upwards, "Come into my parlor."

"I am hardly a spider," he remarked.

"Uh-huh," she doubtfully replied. "And yet you used bait to get me here. And by that I mean threatening to stalk me, which actually makes you more of a dinopis spider. But you apparently were not content to wait for me to show up, so you sprang upon me like a trap door spider. Of course, I'm rather grateful that you did, so may be I should stop with the arachnid analogies before I become a victim of yours." It was only half-jokingly said.

Sherlock shook his head. "You don't strike me as having arachnophobia – or as being an araneologist."

"I'm big on useless knowledge," she deadpanned, hesitating only for a second before walking into the building with him. Not that she had any real choice in the matter as he had yet to release her. It was odd because she'd talked to Mike about Sherlock earlier and he'd led her to believe that the man had issues with touching and in general dealing with people. For all of his lack of understanding the fundamental importance of personal space, Mike said he didn't like to touch others or have them touch him.

Yet, he seemed to be doing okay with the reaching out physically to her. Not great because he was ignoring her discomfort and desire to be anywhere but here, but she couldn't say that he was bad because he wasn't using it in a sexually threatening manner. She paused, knowing that she was really going to have to rethink her definition of _not bad_ if she was relatively okay with his dragging her around with him like she was a wayward puppy.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he called out. "I've brought a friend."

"Oh, how wonderful," the woman came out and looked at Willow critically. She wondered what the middle-aged woman saw when she looked at her because she found the other woman to be quite friendly looking. Her brown eyes held some shadow, the shadow of one who'd known pain and darkness, one who had fought her way out of the trap and made a life for herself. Yet, still carried the darkness within her. "She's not your usual sort though, dear."

"I don't have a usual sort," he replied. "Tea, Mrs. Hudson."

"I'm not your housekeeper, dear," she reminded him, finally making up her mind as to whether she felt his friend was good enough to stay in her home. "But just this once, I'll make an exception for your guest. You'd probably poison the girl and scare her away."

"Somehow I don't think she's the easy to scare kind," his retort was dry.

Willow sighed, rolling her shoulders restively. "She can leave so you can have this conversation about her without her inconvenient presence to hold you back."

Instantly, his arm tightened about her before it moved down to the center of her back so that he could push her in ahead of him.

She sighed again, "Not happening, huh?"

"Not until you've satiated my curiosity about you," he complacently said, watching her look around the room. His hand automatically went to lock around her wrist though he was pretty sure she was no longer going to try to leave.

"Is that a Stradivarius?" her question was utterly awed.

"Yes, definitely not going anywhere," he murmured, before raising his voice. "No, I would never leave anything as valuable as a Stradivarius around, no telling what might happen should mummy decide to call. That is my violin for annoying my arch-villain. What do you think?"

"I think you having an arch-enemy fits right into the man that you are. Rather completes the picture," she shrugged. Glancing down, she shifted nervously in his grip. "Uh, you can let go. I'm not going to bolt."

Stepping away, he sat back and relaxed into the couch. He continued to watch her, keeping his expression blank when she turned quizzical eyes upon him. "Ok, what is with you? First, you wouldn't let me go when I asked – repeatedly – and now it's just that easy?" She shook her head in consternation. "You sure blow hot and cold, don't you? Secondly, where am I to sit? Or do you want me to hop up beside the skull over there?"

"You mean Yorick?"

"You calling him Yorick would be a cliché," she scoffed. "I'd think you'd call him something like Byodb – silent b at the end – especially since I think that's the skull of a female."

"Why?"

"Do I think it's female?"

"Don't really care about that," he waved it off, "Unless you think it's some kind of hint about the loneliness of my private life."

Tilting her head, "Am I supposed to care about such things?"

"You are female," he said.

"Oh, way to be stereotypical."

"I'm a highly functioning sociopath."

"Bringing us back to the skull which is far more interesting than your mental instability."

Sherlock couldn't help it. He laughed, shaking his head. "So, why Byodb?"

"Bring your own dead body," she smirked. "I'd use another word for the d but you don't seem the type to use profanity casually."

"While I admit that you may have a point, I wonder what it is that leads you to believe that."

"You're smart. I mean scary, awesomely interesting smart. Profanity is an easy out, a sign that one can't think of another word to use to express one's discontent or upset." She finally decided to clear off one of the chairs. "So, why am I here? Really?"

"I don't delve into existentialism." His fingers steepled together and he watched her intently, watching as she carefully staked his papers. Though she didn't know his system, she was trying to keep everything in the order he'd had it in.

"I asked why I'm here. I as in Willow Rosenberg. Not we as in every living being on the planet," she rolled her eyes.

"Really, Rosenberg, I thought I made myself clear yesterday. I despise being redundant. You know very well why you are sitting in Baker Street with me."

"To answer the question about Afghanistan or Iraq," she said.

"Among other questions I have for you."

Looking up at the ceiling, she heaved a sigh. It was depressing how often she found herself doing that since meeting the man. It was becoming a nasty habit, one she needed to break before she became pathetic. Well, more pathetic than she already was, she could almost hear Cordelia say. "I suppose saying that it's confidential and too boring once explained isn't enough to stop you."

He waited until Mrs. Hudson handed him a cuppa and for her to leave before shaking his head. "No. Talk."

"Most people do everything in their power to keep me from doing so," she commented, rising to add milk to the cup that Mrs. Hudson had given her.

"I am not a mindless drone, Rosenberg," he sharply said. "Therefore, I do not slavishly follow that boring precedent so many others cling to."

"No, I suppose you don't." Sitting back down she took a sip as she wondered just what to tell him that wouldn't compromise her position. "The knee was messed up in Iraq but demolished in Afghan."

"Both. It's always something I miss," he softly mused. "And Lestrade?"

Willow studied him, examining him in a way only Mycroft had. Sherlock found that it didn't matter who did it. He didn't like it at all. "What do you think?" she asked. "Or rather hypothesized because I'm sure you have some notion as to my connection to him."

"You are an American, West Coast, southern California as I've already stated. Obviously, you have some form of intelligence – college learned as well as self-taught. Early thirties, had a sexual identity crisis a few years ago before you decided the whole relationship thing was no longer worth it. A recovering addict, though you are not using alcohol or drugs, you lack the quirks and twitches of one who uses or has used. Quite clearly you are an only child, though the friendships you have with your friends has knit you into a family unit. Your mother is a psychologist. Father plays no active role other than to enforce a strong, Jewish upbringing upon you though he is not a Rabbi. A biblical scholar," he finished. "There's more about you personally but I figured I'd stick to the basics. Shall I tell you what conclusions I have drawn about your relationship to Lestrade or will you simply tell me?"

"Just the basics?" she faintly repeated. An awful suspicion was beginning to form in her mind. One she desperately hoped would prove false.

"The more obvious ones," he agreed.

"I don't believe this," she muttered. "I just don't believe I missed something so blindingly obvious. How ironic is it that I run into you? Of all the people to meet in this large city, I met another Holmes. One of the powers that be really has some grudge against me, doesn't he?"

Sherlock's cup was put down. "You've met my brother?"

"Only after I met your great-granduncle. And he's about as impressed by Mycroft as you appear to be." Surprised by the betrayed tone in his voice, she neglected to note when her cup fell to the floor. Why would he sound so? They'd only met the day before.

"You do realize that such a thing is absurd as he is dead."

"_Really, Sherlock, your brains are not dull nor are your wits lacking in any way. Does she look as though she is the kind to make such a tale up? When all possible solutions have been eliminated, what is left – no matter how impossible it may seem – is the truth. I may be dead physically but my spirit and mind are far from desiccated_," a voice from the fireplace spoke and both stared, though only one of them had their eyes opened wide in shock.

But then Willow never had been one to expect his appearances whenever he decided to show up.

"_Watson_," Sherrinford chided, "_I cannot approve of this one either. He doesn't seem Holmes enough for you_."

She huffed, arms crossing her chest. "I believe in your estimation, only _**you**_ are Holmes enough for me."

"_Quite correct. Only the genuine article will do for Watson's descendents – so long as they have his spirit,_" he replied. "_I should be disappointed in you if you settled for less than what his legacy deserves_."

Sherlock studied him. "I never would have said that any of us are religious or even quasi-religious enough to believe in an afterlife."

"_The universe has too much logic to be random and undirected. While I will never pin myself down to any definition of one, supreme ruler, I do believe that there is some guiding force out there. Especially after coming into contact with Watson's life_," he informed him, studying the room before coming to stand over her. His gaze dropped to the ground where the cup resided and he looked at her reproachfully.

"I thought you were Rosenberg."

If his tone could sound accusatory, hurt, betrayed, and intrigued all at once, she was sure it would sound exactly like him in that one sentence. All of those emotions – and she threw in affronted by her perceived dishonesty with him for good measure. "I am Rosenberg. My great-grandfather on my mother's side was John Watson." She bent down and picked the cup up, uttering a quiet clean up spell as she did so, no reason to make Mrs. Hudson work harder than necessary. Even though she'd said that she wasn't his housekeeper, Willow had a feeling that the woman was used to cleaning up after Sherlock. She wondered again what the connection between the two of them was. The bond between them seemed rather maternal and genuinely returned on his end even if he seemed rather abrupt about it.

"Yet he calls you Watson," he pointed out.

"A habit I'd tried to break him of for over twenty years before I finally gave up." She shrugged, fingers massaging her knee as she stood back up. "I've learned that a Holmes will do as they please and I should just work on damage control."

"_She carries much of Watson's spirit with her – more so than his other descendents_," there was a mix of pride and disgust in his voice. His gaze went to the window, sharpening on something and his smile became almost predatory, hungry. Longing for what once was his life, "_What do you make of the four murders_?"

"Three," he corrected, then rose. Walking over, he saw the police car out front. "Four – oh, how wonderful. Christmas has come early."

"_That remains to be seen_," Sherrinford dryly said. "_But I withhold judgment until I hear your theory on what is going on_."

"Obviously murder. You and I both realize that the places and the similarities between the deaths is no mere coincidence," he started, rather disappointed by this reaction though he had no real cause to be. Mrs. Hudson's arrival stopped him, though he didn't care what others thought of him, he hardly felt that Willow would appreciate the attention being brought to her. And why was he so…not concerned but unduly solicitous towards her, he really couldn't say. "Ah, Lestrade, you've finally come to your senses and realized how lost you are."

And ignored the muttered, "_There's another Lestrade? What is Scotland Yard coming to_?"

"Will you come?" he asked. "You might want to come as well, Willow," he added, revealing the reason for his personal visit. He knew that she'd be there for Mike had informed him of the meeting. Usually, he would've sent a text, knowing that the consulting detective preferred that method of communication.

"Why?" she asked even as she used her cane to stand back up.

"I'll explain in the car," he told her, knowing that Sherlock would follow in a taxi. The man was nothing if not a creature of habit. It was one of the things Lestrade could count on in any situation.

"At the scene, Lestrade, she stays with me." Sherlock's words were definitely a statement – and one that clearly claimed a quasi-ownership over her.

She wasn't sure what to make of it, especially seeing the almost approving look on Sherrinford's face. Or hearing the way he almost gleefully taunted, "_Mycroft's going to _**hate**_ this_." Honestly, the man wasn't even his brother and yet, Sherrinford acted as though they were in some kind of brotherly rivalry. Her life had definitely taken a bizarre turn, one she couldn't explain as she was none to gently shoved towards Sherlock.

She shot the ghost a resentful look before saying, "Mr. Holmes, I'd rather go with Greg."

"Not happening," Sherlock negated that option, his hand closing around her wrist. "We still have much to discuss."

"Still," she tried without much success to remove her wrist from his grip, "I will come back to Baker Street for that."

"Is there some part of my statement that you find incomprehensible, Rosenberg?"

"Of course not, sir. I just…"

"Then cease your useless prattle," he ordered. "I despise repeating myself and have tired of doing so with you." There was a pause, "And call me Sherlock since Holmes is already in use."

"Did I miss something?"

"As always, Lestrade, you've missed everything," Sherlock dryly informed him. "Come, Rosenberg, there is a body to see."

Her lips quirked, "Yea?"

"That's the spirit," he congratulated her. Letting go, he sent a text. Walking into the hall, he pulled on his coat, wrapping his scarf around his neck. "ROSENBERG!" he yelled, seeing that she was not there.

"I'll meet you at the scene," she apologetically said. "He may just latch onto me again."

"See me about a pint later," he said.

Sherlock came back in, a vexed expression on his face. "Can you not just follow along? Must I always retrieve you?"

"What am I? Your new favorite toy? Or the dog you were denied as a child?" she irritably asked, trying to evade his hand. But her injury prevented her, "Private property?"

"No – you are a Watson to the Holmes' family," both consulting detectives said, as though it was a natural state of affairs. "Now, come on," he jerked her along with him.

"_I may just have to revise my opinion of the boy_," he mused, watching them get into the taxi.

Lestrade jumped, seeing the man by the window. A man he would've sworn hadn't been there before. "Where did you come from?"

The faint, almost spectral man released a sigh that resounded in the room. "_Did you not pass secondary school before you entered the university or did they give you a police commissioner's badge because you thought it was a pretty party favor_?"

"Of course I passed," he snapped.

"_Then why did you ask such a pointlessly useless and idiotic question_?" he asked. "_Not that I actually care that you've obviously impeded your brain by filling it with facts that have no bearing upon your profession. Such a question is pathetic when one knows of biology and sexual education_."

"I wasn't aware that Sherlock had relatives."

"_Did you think he sprang up out of a petri dish in a lab? Mothered by an ill-adjusted, mentally deficient hunchbacked assistant who responds to the clichéd name of Igor? A loyal lackey who bathes, if one is lucky, every few decades_?"

"No, he dresses too posh for that."

"_The same cannot be said of this place he dwells in_," he commented, ignoring the voice in the back of his mind that sounded remarkably like John who reminded him that he had to same kind of organizational abilities. His eyes lit up, "_Though I must say that the skull adds quite an interesting touch. Homo-sapiens, an eighty percent chance that it is female, of the late sixteenth century I believe. Don't you have a case to attend to, Detective Inspector_?"

By the time he arrived, he could hear Anderson's irate voice, demanding that Sherlock not contaminate his crime scene. "**You**r crime scene?" Lestrade repeated. "I was not aware that we personalized them. Should we change the tape to say your name? And remove the rest of the division so that you don't have to worry about anyone else getting in your path?"

Anderson flushed and stepped back, allowing Sherlock to walk into the room. But stepped in front of Willow, stopping her, "Who's she?"

"She's with me," Sherlock cut off Lestrade and the Detective Inspector was reminded of her offhand comments. At the time, it had been mildly amusing but he was beginning to fear that there was some truth to it. He'd never seen Sherlock take to someone so quickly.

"Since when are you allowed to bring visitors as if a crime scene was some kind of amusing outing?"

"Anderson, I know it's a stretch but do try to use your brain every once in a while. She is my colleague, not a tourist. And certainly not a casual visitor."

"Sir, I must protest."

"File a complaint later, Anderson. We don't have time for this."

Willow shook her head. "You need to work on your people skills."

"Why? I have very little need for people or socializing," the word left his mouth as if it left a vile taste on his tongue. "The luckiest people in the world are not those who need people. Nor are they the ones who surround themselves with mindless sycophants in an attempt to make themselves feel better about who they are."

"Of course not. But there are very few people who are alone who are truly contented with who and what they are. People don't surround themselves with others in an attempt to be happy. They do it because they genuinely care about them."

"Happiness is an emotion I have little use for."

"Says the man who was giddy with such a feeling earlier," she remarked. Adding dryly, "Obviously, you've become a complete automaton who has eradicated all such emotion from his existence. Save for the occasional Trojan glitches that somehow sneak past your virus protection and corrode your programming."

"Rosenberg, I'll solve you later. Right now, this body must hold my attention." He let go and walked to the body, examining it with the eye of a scientist. And yet, with the soul of an artist, seeing the details that others could not.

"Rather brilliant, isn't he?" Willow's comment was quiet. Looking over at Lestrade, she tilted her head to the side and frowned, trying to read his look. "You met Sherrinford, didn't you?"

It was not a question.

"Oh, is that who he was."

"Dismissive, abrupt, and absolutely unnerving with smarts?" she asked. "Yup, Sherrinford Holmes – and either he likes you. Or wanted to see how much the Lestrade he knew is inside of you. Apparently, some things are constant in this universe."

Greg's eyebrows quirked. "I'd hate to hear how he treats those he doesn't like."

"Those never fall into his radar unless they harm his Watson." Her voice was matter of fact as was the implication of what the man would do to them should they have the unfortunate chance of meeting the man.

"I am surprised he hangs around you. I was under the impression that he had a low, almost misogynistic view of women."

She waved her hand dismissively. "No different that that of the majority of Victorian men and far more admiring of them than many give him credit for being. Funnily enough, while one remembers The Woman, no one really considers what he said of Mary to be an indication of his feelings towards my gender. He thought that my great-grandmother had a certain genius that would've helped in his work. But she choose to marry and rendered her potential of no use, seeing that emotion clouds the minds and deadens the senses. His words, not mine."

"Would you shut up? I cannot concentrate with your inane prattle filling the room with ineffectual data."

"Sorry," she apologized though she should have been offended to be thought of as useless. She figured it must've been her long time exposure to the Holmes mind that had inured her to such things. Well, Sherrinford and Cordelia. When one of the nicest insults one received had to do with the softer side of Sears, one had to develop tougher skin. Didn't mean that it didn't hurt but she had grown used to such words being thrown her way.

They watched him for a while and Willow couldn't help but admire his skill. And his mind, "Amazing," she finally whispered, unable to hold it in any longer.

Sherlock stopped and stared at her, really stared at her. "You realize you said that out loud."

"So? It – and you – are amazing," she shrugged, though she a was aware of the flush flooding her face. "I'll try to restrain myself in the future. Should the occasion arise again, improbable though that may be," she hastily added.

Sherlock studied her. Judged her sincerity and comparing it to others he'd met. The fact was, she really meant her words and wanted nothing from him. "No, its fine," he said at last.

"So, what do you have?" Greg asked.

"Haven't you been listening?" Sherlock's exasperatedly asked.

"Go over it again."

"Hey, we're not all observational geniuses with an ability to do abductive reasoning," she cut in. "And I didn't quite catch all that you said myself. While I will admit to admiring your brilliance and really have no need to understand what you see in order to appreciate you, I'd kinda like too."

"With your idiotic mind I would be surprised if you caught any of what I said," he snapped only slightly mollified by her words. But he did repeat himself, taking more time to elaborate upon the details.

Lestrade was surprised. That had never happened before. As he looked over at Willow, a contemplative look came into his eyes. As disturbing as Sherlock's fixation on her was, he responded to her in a way he didn't with other. Perhaps it was time to take a real look at his great-grandfather's words regarding Holmes before he worked with Watson and after they became partners. There could be something to the pairing that transformed the great man into a good one.

Sherlock disappeared and Willow turned to him. "I have a feeling that I've been forgotten. And I'm not sure if I should be insulted or relieved," it was teasingly said, though she was more relieved than upset. "So, why did you really want me to come along? I've seen nothing to indicate the presence of a magical threat. No signs that this is in any way related to the occult." Except for the presence of Sherrinford, but he was giving her a pointed look. One she easily interpreted as _keep silent about me or I know a few experiments we have yet to try upon your magical abilities that you will not find pleasant. And I need a new lab assistant_.

"Truthfully, I was trying to give you a way…what's wrong?" he asked, seeing the way she stiffened. It was so strange to see the laid back girl disappear underneath the stiff, blank faced warrior. He had not yet witnessed the transition from the Willow who babbled into the one who focused completely upon the job that needed to be done to the exclusion of all. It was not a sight he liked seeing.

"You are not the slayer," a voice hissed from their right.

"But I'm a friend of the mystic, Sytrix. What are you doing here? This woman is dead, her spirit has passed on. There is nothing for you to devour here," she replied, moving to stand in front of Lestrade.

Holmes, she was happy to note, had disappeared. Seems he remembered what this being did and knew that he needed to be gone.

"Wrongful death," it hissed, stepping forward. The veins pulsed with foul blood that it was keeping inside its skin for the moment, "Cheated." The gravely but powerful voice of the bruise colored figure did not quite mesh with what they were seeing. They were expecting a voice as chilling as the scent of carrion that filled the room when its mouth opened to speak. Its black, frayed wings shivered, wrapping tightly around its body, making the gaunt figure appear bigger somehow.

"She did?" Behind her, she could feel Lestrade tense up. Dully she recalled that while he knew who she was, he had never seen any real demons before, though the night hag could hardly be considered a demon. Its classification was something in between. And Sytrix was in a category all of its own. She knew that as a result, he thought she was a bit of a joke. He couldn't deny the evidence of the existence of other beings but he'd never had the reality thrust in his face before.

Fiery eyes flicked towards her, noting the man behind her. "Murderer cheated death."

Willow stared, puzzled before something clicked and her head shook in horror. The murderer was a _**wrong**_ presence. Not because he was killing people, although that was definitely a bad thing. He was playing a game with death itself and seeing how far he could cheat death before it caught up to him. "Oh, no." She couldn't help but think about the demon that had come for Buffy after the resurrection spell. How it had harmed them all, possessing them before they had been able to find a way to deal with it. The first step, she recalled duly, that had allowed for the First Evil to enter the world.

If this man had done something to start all of that up all over again…

"How close to death is the killer?" she urgently asked.

"What?" Lestrade involuntarily questioned. This was definitely proof that Sherlock was right, not that he needed any proof. He knew the man's genius too well to believe that he was wrong. Of course, this was something that was not admissible in court but still, it was reassuring.

"Should already be dead."

"Of what?" she demanded.

But Sytrix didn't answer, just slunk out of the room.

Lestrade expelled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "The pub for a pint. You have five seconds to get rid of that smell and not mess up any of the evidence before I turn this whole place over to Anderson."

They were in the pub, her eating some chips and ignoring the drink in favor of water. "Not a drinker?"

"It makes me careless," she admitted. "So, I take no chances. The murderer is dying. Should, in fact, already be dead. I'm not quite sure how long it'll be before death itself comes to call."

"You trust the word of that…what was that?'

"A night hag," she supplied. "Sytrix is one of the lesser soul harvesters. The lower ranking ones are bound by a code of honor to take unjust spirits – the higher echelon is not so kind. If the killer isn't caught before another human's life is claimed by him, one of them will be released. I fear it will be the Hag Countess and she will stop at nothing to seek the killer out."

"Isn't that a good thing?" He leaned back, letting the server put the plate in front of him.

"Whoever it is will destroy anything in its path to get its prey," she said, picking up the chicken sandwich.

"How about the, what did you call it, the Sytrix?"

"They follow the scent of death. Even though we saw her eyes, they have neither eyes to see nor minds to really figure things out. That comes over time," she sighed, chewing on a bite for a few moments. "What the night hags seem to be are drones. They follow orders and can answer questions – as you heard. But they don't have independent thought unless they come to the attention of some higher demon. Unlike minions who never really could rise above that status, night hags can. It makes them ones to watch out for."

"How do you kill it?"

"You don't. Night hags are there to keep the balance," she smiled at his pained expression. "Not all demons are bad, Greg, the trick is knowing which is which. And, for the most part, night hags remain in the Realm of Hades.. They are part of the way that evil – for want of a better word – souls get another chance at life."

"I take it that that's what the Council was for. Figuring these things out so that the Slayer could do her job without the delays such research would call for."

"Yeah." Falling silent, she ate some more. All of a sudden, or so it seemed to Greg, she broke the silence. "How trustworthy – no, that's not the word I want. It's not even in the same ballpark," she muttered.

Lestrade waited, though he was pretty sure he knew what she was going for. "Spit it out," he advised finally, knowing he had to wrap this meeting up soon. He could only get away with so much in the eyes of his superiors when it came to dealing with her. Luckily, he had that phone number to give them if they got too pushy with him, though he still didn't know who it called. Quite frankly, he was rather afraid to look into that closed room.

"How far do you think Sherlock will go to find out my secrets?"

"As far as he needs to go to get the answers he wants," Lestrade answered without hesitation.

Her head hit the wall. "That's pretty much what I figured. So, what do I do? The things I work with, that I do, they aren't something that should be trusted to just anyone."

Her phone went off before he could answer.

_Come to Baker Street if convenient._

_SH_

She ignored it and looked at him in expectation, as if he held all the answers. After all, he obviously had some kind of working relationship with Sherlock. If anyone knew how to handle the situation, he should. Plus, she didn't want to involve Mycroft. The less time she spent with that man, the happier she was. Mycroft Holmes with his seemingly all knowing assistant and his ever present umbrella – Faith once joked that it must be some kind of kinky fetish of his – unnerved her. He had a way of looking at her as though he could see all of her secrets and decipher any and every action she might make before it would occur to her what choice she ought to make.

The phone pinged again.

_If not, come anyway._

_SH_

Again, she ignored it.

"I've known him for some time and I still cannot say that I understand him. But you aren't leaving until you finish your work. You can't," the telephone chimed again, interrupting him. This time, she ignored it though she could tell from his amused look that Greg knew who it was. "So, you can either tell him. Or try to avoid him, which will be impossible as the man knows London better than any one person has a right to.

"And he has impressive contacts," he added, thinking of all the times said contacts had gotten Sherlock out of hot water.

"He may want to come along. How do I stop that?"

"You don't – and that's him. Again," he snorted when the phone went off again. "Don't keep him waiting – he may zip tie you to his side."

_Though highly improbable, if I said it could be dangerous, would you come?_

_SH_

And the last message:

_Stop wasting time flirting with Lestrade. I need you here, Rosenberg._

_SH_

"Sorry," she rose, ignoring the blush flooding her cheeks. "Thanks for dinner."

"Go," he ordered, wondering at the blush on her face. It could either be anger or embarrassment. But she hadn't done anything to fuel that particular emotion. Not that such a thing would occur to Sherlock. The man was blunt to the point of rudeness. And while he appreciated the fact that Sherlock didn't pull any punches, that one always knew where you stood with the man, he wished he'd learn a little tact.

Walking outside, she tried to figure out where she was and how to get to Baker Street. "Screw this," she muttered and went into a dark, deserted alley. Snapping her fingers, she appeared near Baker Street, just shy of appearing in a street light. Crossing the street, she knocked on the door, waiting patiently for Mrs. Hudson to let her in.

_Just enter – the door isn't locked._

_SH_

Walking in, she made her way into the room they'd been in earlier. She stared at him, lounging on the couch, a picture of calm. "Do you realize how dangerous it is to leave your door unlocked?"

"Never mind that, I need you to send a text." He waved off her words, not even opening his eyes to watch her. His very air screamed instant compliance from her.

"Why can't you send it from your phone? If you think mine has a signal, yours does too."

"My number is recognizable from my blog."

"And that matters why?"

Sherlock opened an eye and stared at her. "Give me your phone, Rosenberg. This text needs to be confidential."

"Right," but for the second time in as many days, she gave him her phone. "Are you texting Lestrade?"

His pointed look and silence unnerved her. "If not him, why the need for secrecy?"

Tossing her the phone, "Haven't you guessed? Think for a moment, Rosenberg. The killer made a fatal mistake – he took her bag. Her phone was not on her. What kind of modern woman is without that necessity?"

"You texted the killer?" she practically squeaked the question. "On my phone. Are you crazy?"

"No more than you – you appeared out of nowhere just across the street. Where anyone who paid any attention to the world around them could see you. How do you explain that?"

"I wasn't aware that you'd witnessed that," she stiffly said, fighting the urge to flee. Or bash her head against a wall in honor of her abject stupidity. It seemed that such actions were all she was capable of since meeting this man. Sinking into the chair she'd cleaned earlier, she stared out at the night sky. She was in so much trouble, Giles was going to have kittens.

Literal kittens.

Well, she needed a new familiar.

"There isn't much that occurs on this street that I am not privy too. You can expect a call from my brother," the disdain dripped from his voice, "Soon. Or he'll do what he normally does when he wants to check up on me through others. I doubt he'll be pleased with your association with me."

"Then why don't we terminate it?"

Sherlock sighed and shook him head. "I never do anything that may please him. And should you feel any concern over that, he feels the same about me."

"Right," she muttered. "Is it some sibling thing? This combatative coexistence with affection taking off some of the edge?"

"Rosenberg, do not assign such saccharine emotions to me. I find it to be neither amusing nor to be in good taste." Suddenly, he leapt up. "Let's go!"

"Where?"

"Does it matter?" he asked, making to grab her arm.

Rising, she was quick to head for the door. "No, I really suppose not. You know, for a man who professes to have no need for emotional ties, who is a self-proclaimed sociopath, you've really latched onto me."

"May be it's encoded in our DNA. Out!"

"Bossy boots," she muttered. "Why am I actually doing this?"

"Because I just might handcuff you to my side if you don't."

She stopped and stared at him, wide eyed. "You know, Greg said you might do that very same thing – only he said sip tie."

"Really? I may have to reassess that man's intelligence. Now, pay attention to where we are and where we are going. As fascinating as your magic trick was, I don't want you to rely on it alone. You'll grow careless."

"Been there," she replied with a bitter look, "Don't have the t-shirt but really don't care for a repeat performance."

"Then pay attention," he ordered. He almost pointed out that they'd acquired a tail but something in the subtle way she moved to shield him told him that she knew. And had known for quite some time for her hand on her cane had shifted. The slight straightening of her spine, the way her head tilted slightly to the left, she knew. Knew – and was willing to do whatever was necessary to dispose of the threat.

Sherlock didn't know why he thought there tail might be a danger to them but he did. It was more than just her manner. It was something else. A feeling he'd never experienced before, though he loathed to admit to such a thing – even to himself.

"When I say duck, do it." He vaguely heard her whisper. The word practically exploded in his mind and he dropped, feeling the cane swing over his head. A squishing sound echoed in the evening air as did the squealing of the creature and then nothing. It was as if time had frozen for just a moment as he looked up at her, seeing the coldly distant look on her face.

Glancing over, he saw nothing on the ground. "What was that?"

"A part of my life I don't really think you have any real need to know about." She sighed. "But it has become all to apparent that my desire in this is nothing for you will find out any way. Let's just finish your case first and then we'll discuss my life, ok?"

"Sherlock!" A man joyfully exclaimed, his arms extended wide in greeting. "Oh, you've brought a date. How delightful."

"I'm not his date," Willow protested, "More like his hostage."

"Even better. I'm Angelo. This man got me off a murder charge," he explained, leading them towards a table by the window. "I'll get a candle for you." He scurried off, ignoring her 'it's not a date.'

"We're not actually on a date, are we?" she asked, placing her cane in her lap. From her pocket, she pulled out a cloth and some cleaner, cleaning it.

Sherlock considered her, noting that the substance was greenish blue. And rather glittery. "What do you think?"

An almost hysterical laugh escaped her. "How should I know? Until yesterday, I didn't even know you existed. In less than twenty-four hours you've hijacked my life, taken me to a crime scene, texted me while I was eating with Lestrade, used my phone to send a confidential message to a possible killer, and not objected to the idea of a candle being placed on the table we're sitting at. A table that happens to be in a dimly lit restaurant and is rather secluded from the other patrons. So, you'll forgive me if I'm not sure what to think about this whole situation."

Heaving a sigh of frustrated relief, she shrugged. "I've been wanting to do that all day. Thanks. And I tend to babble, sorry."

"Knew that," he waved it off. "I'm not interested in a relationship – romantic or otherwise – with anyone. Or anything. My work is my spouse."

A snort escaped her. "Nice to know that there are some still in the world who take their vows seriously. But will your work understand retirement?"

"What makes you think I'll retire?"

Tilting her head, she shook her head. "You don't strike me as the blaze of glory type. One who'll die in the midst of working," she explained. "Which reminds me, what is it that you do? Exactly."

His eye caught something from out the window. "That's our cue, Rosenberg." He stood up and headed for the door, stopping when he realized that she wasn't with him. And that her knee would make doing this rather difficult. "Angelo!"

"Yes?"

"See that she gets to my place," he ordered and left.

Willow heaved a sigh, shaking her head. The more she was exposed to the man, the more entrenched into his madness she felt herself falling. It was the same thing that happened with Buffy and finding out about her magic potential. Swept along by the intrigue, the feel of being needed, it was heady and dangerous. And something she needed to break herself of. "Is he always like that?"

"He is a great man," Angelo agreed. "I shall take you there myself after you've eaten the desert he ordered for you."

"When did he do that?"

"He and I have an agreement."

"I see. And that's kind of you but I really have to get back to my living quarters."

Angelo was horrified by the idea. "No, no. You must go to Sherlock's. He won't be long and you can resume your evening."

Willow smiled. But it was obviously strained. "Its been a long day for us. I just want to take a shower and sleep. He'll understand."

"I don't know," Angelo hesitated.

"Look , he's on a case. And I'm pretty sure that I'm distracting him from catching the guilty party. Just tell me how to get to St. Bart's from here." She smiled again with a little less tension, trying to convince the man that it would be fine.

Though still reluctant, he finally gave her directions. Watching her leave, he couldn't shake the feeling that he shouldn't have done that. Sherlock wanted her to return to 221, not go off somewhere else. While he was aware that the detective could find her again, he also knew that it would annoy the man to have to do so. Perhaps he should inform the regulars that Sherlock sometimes used to keep an eye on her.

In the end, he really couldn't do anything else, not when she was so insistent upon returning to the place she was staying at.

Willow entered Bart's and went to Mike's office, dropping onto his couch with a relieved sigh. Pulling off her shoes, she leaned back, letting out another sigh of relief to finally be off her feet and out of her shoes. She really should've worn a different pair, not her new ones. But the other pair was so bad, she'd been getting more blisters that was healthy. After a moment, she pulled out her phone and called Giles.

"I've hit a snag," she told him. "There's a murderer who should be dead but he keeps tricking people into taking his place. And the Sytrix warned me – without really warning since such directness is hardly their way – that if he cheats once more, something far worse will be sent after him. But that's not the worst part. Well, for me anyway. I mean, having a night hag like the hag Countess unleashed and bringing death and destruction upon the masses because someone is being far too clever for their own good and cheating death, stealing life from another is a really terrible thing. I know it is."

"Willow?"

"Hmmm?"

"Skip the panic session until after you've taken care of the problem," Giles requested, a yawn escaping him.

"Sorry," she apologized. "I met Mr. Holmes' brother Sherlock. And he is the very definition of the word intense."

Giles was silent. "I'm not going to like this, am I?"

"He's latched onto me," she admitted. "It's rather strange."

Her phone chirped, signaling a text.

"I mean, he literally said that if I didn't met him, he'd track me down. The thing is, I believe that he could find me no matter when in London I stay – even if I had Mycroft's help."

Another chirp.

"And he said he'd stalk me if I didn't satisfy his curiosity about me."

Yet another chirp.

"I think someone is trying to reach you."

"Its Sherlock. He did this while I was eating with Greg."

"Let's focus on stopping the harvester's rise, then worry about Mr. Sherlock," Giles said. "Try to get some sleep."

"You too," she said while thinking that her getting any sleep was unlikely. After hanging up, she debated for a moment before reading the texts in ascending order.

_221c is empty, get here now!_

_ROSENBERG!_

_Where are you, Rosenberg?_

Sitting back up, she pulled on a knee brace then forced her shoes back on. With a sigh, she pictured 221, imagined walking inside, then up the stairs. Hoping that the c apartment wasn't cluttered like Sherlock's chosen living area, she snapped her fingers and was there. Downstairs, she could hear the noise of people – and Sherlock having a fit. As she descended the stairs, she wondered just why she was doing this. "What is going on down here? Is there a circus moving in?" Her voice projected far more confidence than she herself felt.

"Drug bust," Sally succinctly replied, startled to see the redhead. Then again, the poor deluded fool had not been properly warned away from the freak. Though she would've thought the girl would've known better. After all, she had been exposed to his charming manner earlier.

"Okay," she drew out the word, adding far more syllables to it than it actually possessed. "Are things done differently in London than in America? Because I would've thought that you'd need a warrant for this kind of invasion. Not to mention probable cause and reasonable doubt. Or is this some kind of kinky thing that I really don't want to know about." By this point, she was in the center of the room – more because of Sherlock's demanding eyes on her than by choice.

"We have the Detective Inspector with us, so there's no reason for a warrant," Anderson smugly informed her.

"And evidence to back up the need?"

There was silence for a moment before a throat was cleared. "Not exactly, but we have a lot of experience with Sherlock."

"So, either a very bizarre kink," she mused, "Or a euphemism for something else."

"Euph…" Sherlock trailed off, mind racing and focusing, adding and then tearing down things until a theory formed. "Rosenberg, that's it."

"What's it?"

"Rachel – the dead woman's miscarried child," he snapped. "At first, I thought it strange that she would write the name of her dead baby as she lay dying. The child never even took a breath of life, was never held, why did she care?"

Again there was silence. But this time, it was far more accusatory and uncomfortable. Everyone stared at him, shocked by his callousness.

"Did I say something wrong?"

"Yeah," she replied then rethought. "Well, I wouldn't say wrong so much as unfeeling and callous."

"Why?"

"Why does an amputee still feel the pain in their lost limb years after its loss?" she asked. "A baby until it is born is a part of a woman's body – and you have to factor in human emotions. No matter what, whether a fetus or a newborn, the baby is real and loved. That's one of the reasons surrogacy is such a difficult and tricky thing. As much as the carrier may wish to remain neutral of the life growing inside, she cannot fully cut herself out of the equation."

Sherlock looked confused before shrugging it off as immaterial - which, to him, it was. "In this case, it's a clue to the killer's motivations." He saw the look that passed between Lestrade and her and his eyes narrowed. "Rosenberg, the hall."

Following him, she faced the door, not wanting Mrs. Hudson to hear this. Greg would keep his people in line. She hoped.

"What aren't you telling me? About this case," he elaborated before she could prevaricate.

"That's part of my life you will learn about – later," she reminded him. "It really has no bearing on the case now that you have an idea as to how to find the killer."

"Lestrade knows."

"That's because he has to cover up if someone finds something relative to my work," she exasperatedly snapped.

There was a knock on the door and they looked at it, almost as if they couldn't believe the audacity of someone coming by and interrupting them. "Get that, Rosenberg."

She glared after him before making her way to the door, knee twitching. "I've got it, Mrs. Hudson," she called out.

"Thank you, dear." The woman did not sound surprised to hear her.

As she approached the door, something uncurled within her belly – a familiar sensation. She quickly texted,

"_Greg, door, help._"

Greg jerked, feeling his phone vibrate. Opening it, a frown crossed his face. "Excuse me," he paused, looking directly at Sherlock. "Is there another way out to the front?"

"Let's go," Sherlock's tone brooked no arguing. Seeing the cab on the curb, the pieces fell into place. He could've danced with joy at realizing the cleverness of the killer. It was so obvious now. Who would suspect one of the only professions people went with without question? "The cabbie – he's our man," he told Lestrade. "That's why all the victims were found in such diverse places, places they had no reason to be. Her phone will be in the cab."

"If that's true, we've got to get Willow away from him," Greg grimly said.

"I told you, no one called for a ride," she said, keeping the door close so that he couldn't breach the barrier. "You must have the wrong address."

"I am glad to see that you made it," his voice oozed with an unidentified something. "I was worried that something might've happened to you."

"Well, as you can see, I'm fine. You only have time for one more passenger, so you'd best find one," she said, stepping back.

"I have," he pleasantly told her. "Come along."

Her eyes widened slightly, "Ok. Just let me tell Mrs. Hudson I'm leaving so that she and Sherlock won't worry."

"I'll go with you," he offered pleasantly.

"What is she doing?" Greg muttered.

"_He's got a gun her_," Holmes suddenly appeared, voice a snarl of sound. "_Get her away from him_."

"She could be shot," Greg protested.

"_And she'll be killed if she goes with him, unleashing something far more deadly than a serial killer_," he snapped.

By then, Sherlock had quietly moved around the cab and up the stairs. No real plan in mind but he'd learned a few things about nerves. If he could just get close enough…

Willow turned around, releasing the door. "Mrs. Hudson, would you let Sherlock know that I've gone back to the hotel?"

"I'm his landlady, not his secretary, dear," she replied.

"I know," she started. The gun went off and she whirled around, the driver on the floor.

"You all right there, Rosenberg?"

"Yeah," she stared at Sherlock, "I'm fine. Mrs. Hudson!"

The landlady walked out, almost swallowed up by the police. "What have you done now, Sherlock?"

Willow was stretched out on the couch, breathing deeply, an orange blanket around her. They'd finally been left alone, mostly because the driver – a man named Jeff Hope – had to be rushed to the hospital.

"_Good job_," Holmes congratulated his great grandnephew, although it sounded rather begrudging to Willow's ear.

"Thanks," he replied. That simple phrase said so much coming from a man who'd solved some interesting cases with only his mind.

"_Watson, are you all right_?"

"I feel fine," she giggled. "Of course, that's because of the endorphins caused by the shock. Once they wear off, I'll have a panic attack."

"_Sleep would be better_." Manipulating the violin, he began to play. The sweet, soothing melody filled the air. She relaxed, her eyes drifted shut as sleep claimed her. After several minutes, he allowed the music to die slowly. "_Let her rest, Sherlock. The answers are worth waiting for_."

"Sleep is boring."

Holmes studied him, shaking his head. "_I once threatened to kill a man if he'd hurt my Boswell – my Watson. Do you think I will not harm you should you hurt her, blood relative though you are_?"

"How long?"

"_As long as she needs – which won't be long enough_."

654321

Willow opened her eyes and looked around, yawning widely before memory crashed down. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"Please, refrain from being so ordinary," Sherlock commented, sitting on the chair across from her. It looked as if he'd moved it from the window to better observe her.

"Like I can help it," she mumbled, slowly sitting up. "How long was I asleep?"

"Four hours," he replied, studying her pale face. His great granduncle had been right, it hadn't been enough time for her to recuperate. "Do you always float in your sleep?"

Her head crashed down upon her knees. "No, only when my power is spiking."

"Spiking?" he repeated.

Forcing herself upright, she faced him. Studying his intent expression, she knew there were no more delays. It was time to tell the truth. Even knowing this, it was still hard to start. "Why don't you ask me questions and I'll tell you what you want to know."

Sherlock left the chair and sat down beside her. "Promise?"

"Promise."

"The whole truth?"

"As far as I know it."

"Though I do not think we should go to the extremes of the Japanese yubikiri, pinky swear?"

"Are you actively serious?" she asked on a half-laugh, half-whine.

"Yes."

Crooking her pinky, she held it out, "Pinky swear."

Linking his to hers, they shook on it. "Who are you besides John Watson's great-granddaughter?"

"My name really is Willow Rosenberg. I am a wizard and a dragonlord."

"Not a witch?" he asked, filing the dragonlord reference away for later pursuit.

"It's not that simple. Real magic – at least in the realm I am learning from – has many different levels. One starts off as a wiccan, then moves up to witch, then wizard, sorcerer, warlock, and mage. Only ones of the bloodline carry the rank of dragonlord but one does not attain the rank until all the stages have been completed. There are some who can access these older, deeper magics and therefore, they progress through the stages. While others cannot ascend the ranks, they are in no wise considered less powerful for the knowledge is on every level," she explained, running a hand through her hair.

"What did you kill last night? And why was it following us? It had to have been aware of the danger."

"An imp," she replied. "And it was following me in an attempt to steal some of my life force. You were of no consequence to it. It must have been starving to be so bold."

"Why weren't you here when I got back?"

"When you…oh, I wanted to get some sleep. It's been a long forty-eight hours. I didn't think you'd actually notice. Had I known, well…" she trailed off, then shook her head. She had to be honest with him. "I still would have gone to the place I'm residing in. You take a lot out of a person."

"Did it not occur to you that I would have some concern for your welfare?"

"Truthfully, Sherlock, no. You made your position quite clear regarding emotions – and relationships. You've told me that you're a highly functioning sociopath – I know what that means. You don't care about others. At least, not in the same way people understand caring to be If anything, I think my actions caused you to be inconvenienced more than anything else."

Sherlock couldn't argue with that. To hear someone state his attitude so bluntly and with little care was refreshing. It also unnerved him for some reason. "Why do you understand what so many of those I associate with struggle to grasp?"

"I don't understand but Holmes is the same way. He can be gracious and charming when he chooses to be. But he does not let many into his inner sanctum. John Watson was the rarity in Holmes' life. One whose pre-eminent position never changed despite circumstances and both men's personalities," she shrugged.

"I guess it's because I grew up always knowing that he was just odd that way. Odd but awesome," she finished, adding musingly, "Must be a family trait – you're the same way."

"When did Mycroft become involved in your life?"

Tilting her head, she wondered about these questions. This was not the conversation she'd been expecting to have. She'd actually been thinking more along the lines of being interrogated about her work, though she really shouldn't complain. There were worse things. Just because she couldn't think of one at that particular moment in time didn't mean that there wasn't one.

Becoming aware of his impatient look, she shrugged. "I'm just trying to do the math in my head. You see, we first became _**aware**_ of Mycroft about two years ago. He didn't get involved with us until about five months ago. Since then, I have heard or seen him every other day. Which I find rather excessive," she grumbled. "He pays more attention to me than my parents do."

"Your parents are not people I like being spoken of in the same sentence as myself, Ms. Rosenberg."

"Mycroft." Sherlock's voice was the farthest thing from welcoming as any she'd ever heard.

"Hello, sir," her voice, by contrast, was a whisper of intimidation.

He ignored her and stared down at Sherlock who leaned back, utterly unconcerned by the look. His posture screamed insolence. Mycroft sat down. Behind him, Willow could see the ever present but not always apparent Anthea – or whatever name she was going by at the current moment. Her ability with her blackberry was akin to Sherlock's and she wondered if they were somehow related. But knew it was pointless to ask, the woman would put a sphinx to shame with her inscrutability. "Within forty-eight hours of meeting Ms Rosenberg, you placed her life in danger. I want to know why you found that utterly necessary, Sherlock."

"She's my Watson, Mycroft. I don't have to explain anything." He smirked, "I didn't even need to say that."

"_I make one complimentary statement to you_," Sherrinford's voice witheringly spoke, "**One**._ That does not automatically make Watson yours_."

Mycroft didn't even blink. To any casual observer – even a trained observer, the man appeared calm, as though he was expecting this. Only the slightest of ticks in his cheek revealed his surprise. "Great grand-uncle," he greeted him.

And was ignored as Sherlock scoffed. "It is quite obvious that she and I met for a reason. As you said earlier, the universe is to logical not to have some sort of benign being watching over things in some kind of capacity. Before now, I was not ready for a partner. But I believe that the time has come for me to accept one – what must I do to prove myself to you?"

"Do I have no say in this?" Willow plaintively asked.

And was also ignored, though unlike Mycroft, she fully expected it. She supposed that it should annoy her, should anger her. But knowing Sherrinford as she did and realizing just how alike to him Sherlock was, she couldn't find it in her. That or may be the fact that she'd nearly died was still messing with her mind. Mycroft leaned over, a contemplative look on his face. One she couldn't help but worry about and she squirmed a little. It was the same look he'd had on his face when he'd told them in no uncertain terms that he would break the spell that the Watcher's Council had placed around the United Kingdom to keep her out of the area.

"So, how long have you known my great grand-uncle? And when were you going to inform me of that fact?"

"_She wasn't_," Sherrinford snapped. Tension coiled around him, tightening about him in barely leashed anticipation for a fight. To what extent he could actually manipulate physical matter, Willow didn't know. And wasn't sure they should experiment on it for in life, his energy had transmuted into a tremendous ability to think and process, to observe beyond what others could. It had given him no rest save for the needle.

As his being was almost pure energy, she foresaw much trouble if his ability to focus was as strong.

"Holmes," she warned. All three looked at her, recognizing the power – the authority – in her. "Now is not the time for this. Nor have I the strength to battle you for dominance over the energy. Know that I will do what I must but I do not want that to become a necessity."

Their eyes remained locked before a shudder shook him. He forced his temper back, "_Very well, for your sake, Watson_."

Sherlock rose and extended a hand. "Come, Willow. The sheets in my room are clean. You may sleep there."

"Sherlock," Mycroft warned, seeing something in the offer that Willow didn't. And Sherrinford did not want to admit to even if Sherlock was correct.

"She's staying where I know she'll be safe," he retorted. Moments later, he walked out. "She'll be moving into 221c as soon as I talk to Mrs. Hudson."

"Don't you think you should talk to her before making that decision?" Mycroft asked.

"I need to know where she is – and you know that I don't actually need a flat mate. Is she why you needed my help with Adler?" the question was not as abrupt as it seemed, he'd thought over what Willow had said in relation to Mycroft's presence in the life of her and her friends. It hadn't taken him long to connect the dots, to remember some hastily jotted note that The Woman had made, to know that something else was going on. And his brother's helping The Woman escape and live in relative safety after the trouble she'd caused Queen and crown was not his way – unless there was a much bigger prize to be won.

Willow more than fit that description.

As was Mycroft's way, he did not confirm anything. "Sherlock, I worry about you enough as it is. Mummy worries when she hears of your escapades through her own network of contacts. For the sake of the family, leave Willow and her life alone," he said.

He shook his head. "The good of the family? Sounds as if mummy has already met Willow. I do have to wonder if you're worried that her association with me will reflect upon your career."

"_It matters not_," a new voice spoke up. Rather clipped, like a military man, "Even _though it annoys Sherrinford, Sherlock is correct. She_ **is** _his Watson_."

"_John_," Sherrinford's voice revealed his shock as he used the man's first name – something he only rarely did.

John smiled and extended a hand in greeting, "_Hello, old friend. You have done well but it is now time to forgive yourself for your error and move on_."

"_Move on_?" he repeated, "_But…"_

"_She knows your methods and your ways even if she does not understand how to really apply them_," he comforted him. "_As you said, she is like I am. It is time for you to more on – there are more mysteries waiting for you, Holmes_."

"_I cannot leave without saying good-bye. She is dear to me, Watson_," he quietly admitted.

"_As you are to her_," he understandingly nodded. "_But there's more to life after death than what hangs on down here. Say good-bye, Holmes_."

"_She's sleeping_," he pointed out. "_And after what_ **he** _put her through, I want her to rest. As a doctor, you know it's what she most needs especially with her power about to go through another growth spurt_."

"What does that mean?" Sherlock interrupted.

"_Willow's power will grow until she reaches the end of her ability. We do not know when that will be and have been working on control as well as focus whenever she surges_."

"_You've been experimenting on her_," Watson accused.

"_For her safety and with her permission which is always asked for every time this situation comes up_."

"_Holmes, she's my great-granddaughter. How could you treat her like an object_?"

"_She is an extra-ordinarily powerful woman who nearly destroyed the world because she lost control, Watson_."

"_I know that_."

"_Then whey are you acting as though I've committed a serious crime_?" Holmes asked. "_I merely taught her and put her through various situations to best use her gifts and not harm others._"

"_That may be but it doesn't make it right. Or mean that I have to like it_."

"_I know, my dear fellow_." He whirled around and stared at his relatives. More specifically at Sherlock, "_You are not to do anything to her until she trusts you. Do you understand_?"

Sherlock nodded reluctantly but he realized that he'd never be rid of this spirit if he didn't agree. "Just how powerful is she?"

"A few years ago she did something by herself that only a coven could do," Mycroft sounded far to smug for a man who hadn't gotten his way. For the briefest of moments, he wondered if this was actually what his brother had planned. But, no. Not even his brother could be that devious. "I will take my leave and make the necessary arrangements for her to move in."

"More security measures?" It was not a question for all that the cynical words sounded like one.

"As well as arranging for protection of another kind."

"Is it really necessary?"

"You insist on her being here and continuing on with your unorthodox line of work. Work that she should not actually be involved in but I have little hope of you keeping her out of it for you do so love an audience. If she is willing to humor you then I shall do my best to see that you are both taken care of. Hence, necessary," he replied with a sharp bite. "If I must do more work and be inconvenienced, then so must you."

Sherlock almost rolled his eyes. "I do not believe for one moment that you are at all put out by all this extra work. You thrive on stress."

"So I do," he acknowledged. "Take care."

"Just get out."

654321

Willow stumbled out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. Opening the fridge, a scream escaped her as eyes in a bloody face stared back. Grabbing a water bottle, she shut the door. Sherlock was by the sink, watching her curiously. "You should probably invest in a noncommercial fridge if you're going to store body parts, Sherlock, they tend to keep things colder." She tried to sound unconcerned.

And stumbled out to the main room, almost tripping. Forcing her eyes to open fully, she turned to him after studying the new boxes in the room. "Why is my suitcase here? And the rest of my things?"

"You're my flat mate," he said as if that was obvious.

She blinked owlishly at him. "I am?"

"Yes," he replied as he moved past her. "Until 221c is clean, you'll have my bed."

"I will?" She blinked and shook her head, pinching herself hard enough to bruise. The pain was sharp and immediate. Nope, she realized, not a dream. "And where will you be sleeping?"

"I do not require an inordinate nor obscene amount of sleep. Should it prove necessary, I will sleep in my bed."

"With me?" she asked for clarification.

Sherlock huffed. "I do not see a problem with such an arrangement."

"Not worried that I may have some nefarious designs upon you?" she dryly asked.

"That would be idiotic. So far, I have been mostly impressed with your ability to refrain from following after the mundane spawn that trawls through the world. Don't disappoint me by suddenly becoming conventional."

"I'll try not to," she sarcastically promised.

"Thank you."

She couldn't tell if he was being as sarcastic as she was. Or if he meant it. "You do realize that this has bad idea written all over it, right?"

"On the contrary, I think it has brilliant all over it."

"_Watson_."

She looked up. "You're leaving me to his tender mercies, aren't you?"

"_I'm sorry_."

A pained smiled crossed her face. "No, you're not because you'll be with your Boswell again. But thanks. I needed to hear that."

Sherrinford knelt down. "_Watson, I do mean it. I'm sorry. And I really will miss you. You haven't been that irritating a human to deal with_."

"You really mean that," she wondrously said. "I'll miss you too. Now, go before I become embarrassingly female and start to cry."

Holmes shuddered. "_Thank you for the warning for it is most appreciated_."

She was silent before looking over at Sherlock. "I'm not moving in."

"You say that as if you have a choice, Rosenberg."

"Last time I checked, I was an American citizen here on a temporary pass. You can't force me to remain."

"No, but I could make it difficult for you to be anywhere else – especially since you have no steady income. This is the perfect solution for both of our dilemmas."

"I was unaware that you had any dilemmas."

"I get bored easily, Rosenberg. You would alleviate that condition."

"Oh, just what I've always dreamed about, being the sole source of amusement for a workaholic sociopath."

"Which is why this works out for the both of us," he replied.

"You know, I can't decide if you get the sarcasm in my words or you honestly think I'm being serious."

Sherlock sat beside her. "Rosenberg…Willow, you need me. Even through your sarcasm, I can hear it. And I need you."

"This is nuts, Completely nuts, you know that. Right?"

Leaning back, he allowed a smile to cross his face. "This is life."

"There have to be some ground rules, Sherlock," she warned. "You need to respect my need for boundaries."

"As long as I find them reasonable," he agreed.

"See, that's where we disagree. Your idea of reasonable and mine are two different things."

He heaved a sigh. "For example?"

"Take the day we met. With little care for my own wishes, you dragged me along with you until you were partially assured that I would not be disappearing on you. Then there's all of this," her hand gestured towards her stuff. "You taking over my life without asking me what _**I**_ want. I have to have time to do my research, teach the classes to the next generation of Watcher's, and track down the missing funds from the Council. There are things I can't do with you just deciding I need to be with you."

"Which is why I am going to help you," he stated.

"Help me?"

"Willow, there's thousands of years of lost data to be found – I contacted your Mr. Giles while waiting for you to wake up and we spoke. Experiments to reclaim what was lost through the purge. You are not fond of lab work, though you need to do it in order to find what works best on killing the new breeds of demons that are showing up. I enjoy such things as much as one of my sensibilities can. To a certain extent, I delight in the cause and effect of such work. You help me with my work, doubtful and chancy though your aid may prove to be, and I will help you."

She expelled a breath, staring at him. "You've put a lot of thought into this. Why?"

"You don't bore me, Willow."

Glancing at the clock, she wearily rose and looked at him. "Bathroom? I need to shower before my class." The rest was said in a muffled voice as she searched a bag for her toiletries. Mycroft must've been in on it for she'd been moved – lock, stock, and barrel – into Baker Street and only he knew all of her hiding places. She wondered just what had happened to change his stance. And then decided she was better off not knowing just how things worked in the Holmes' world. It was strange enough to find herself often invited to tea with Mrs. Holmes. To be working with one brother and living with another, she figured the only way to truly survive was to go with the flow.

At least until she rediscovered her backbone.

"Mrs. Hudson put your toiletries in the bathroom," he said, "That way."

"Thanks," she said. Grabbing a clean set of clothes, she walked out and then turned back, remembering the head in the fridge. "I'm going to find other, not exactly health approved stuff in there, aren't I?'

"Of course, Mrs. Hudson won't let me build a lab."

"Right," she muttered. "We'll have a trial period of six months. And the first chance I get, I need to build him a room in time with adequate equipment for my peace of mind." That last part was said mostly to herself, though she was aware that he would clearly hear it.

Watching her leave, mumbling plans the whole way, he nodded in satisfaction. This was definitely going to work out.

The End.

_The information I used comes from Sir Doyle, of course. Sherlock did indeed complement Mary, saying that she had a genius that would've been useful in their work but by choosing to marry, made herself unsuitable for the work. I'm paraphrasing. This was near the end of "The Sign of Four" when Watson informed him that he was going to marry her and Sherlock told him that he had expected as much but couldn't congratulate him. As well as "The bedside, bathtub & armchair companion to Sherlock Holmes" by Dick Riley & Pam McAllister. It was published in 1998 by Bloomsbury Academic. Sytrix is a night hag from the world of Dungeons and Dragons – they eat the souls of the dead in Hades._


End file.
